this operation.
He would never say aloud (the ghost of Chatty Ballet Man again) that it’s like partnering, but he has thought it, that kind of mute, aloof acceptance of the boy’s support. But it can be messy, awkward, not like partnering at all, her disciplined, carefully placed arms belonging to an entirely different creature from the dangling legs—a greyhound ending in a scarecrow, he has thought. Or: a mermaid stranded on land.
You could make a ballet about paralysis—her husband did once, years ago, long before she got sick, when she was still almost a child. She danced, ran all over the stage, was stricken, and then sat in a wheelchair. It was a small piece, done for charity, performed once. Years before he knew her, or even came to New York, Malcolm happened to read the review of that ballet, sitting in the periodicals room of the newly integrated but stillnerve-racking public library in the Kentucky town where he grew up. He used to go there on Saturdays to read The New York Times —the news but mostly the arts section, the movie and dance reviews—while the two librarians passed by to see how he was doing, the one who ostentatiously smiled to show he was welcome and the one who didn’t. He remembers that review, for some reason; it talked about the beauty of her arms and what she did with her upper body as she sat in the wheelchair. Someone—well, Tim, who is in the company—has told Malcolm her husband can’t bear to remember that he put her in that piece.
Once she is settled, Malcolm hands her the fine silver knife she uses to slit open the envelopes, positions the wastebasket next to her chair, and goes into the kitchen to get the coffee, which he and she both like to drink all through the morning, very strong, with cream. He carries it in to her on a tray, cup and saucer and a blue-and-white Danish coffeepot, delicate and easy to lift but large so that she’ll be well supplied and won’t have to call for more. Unlike the physical things he does for her body, which are not unmentionable but which go unmentioned—they happen in some different world that contains only facts, necessities, mechanics—this gracefully civilized bit of service evokes her soft, pleasant “Thank you,” and one of those radiant smiles.
Then—he is stripping the sheets from the bed, she has gone back to the mail—she says, “Oh, God.” She is looking at an envelope. From where Malcolm is standing, a few feet away, he recognizes her husband’s scrawly black handwriting.
“What?”
“Wait,” she says. She slices open the envelope, scans the letter and laughs, a small, sour, exasperated sigh of a laugh. She holds the white sheet of stationery out to Malcolm.
Dear Sweetheart—
I am in a taxicab going down to the dock, or I am on the dock, or already on the boat as you read this. Crowded, noisy, loud horns, people say good-bye and they love each other. Even though none of this has happened yet, it will, and I will miss you. Be good and careful and eat well, not too much though, and I will come home to you soon .
Love—
Malcolm nods, looks at her, and waits. It seems, to him, like a nice letter; but what matters is how it seems to her.
“What do you think?” she asks, in an overly bright, impatient, baiting voice. She’s smiling. Tell me , she invites. Tell me, and I’ll tell you you’re wrong .
He shakes his head.
She laughs and ducks her head, a graceful little bow, acknowledging his prudence. “Well,” she says, “it’s what you do with a child. You write the stack of letters before you go away, and you give them to a family friend to mail. One a day, or every other day; some prearranged schedule. That way, the child thinks you are thinking of her, and you can go off and be out of reach without worrying that she’s feeling neglected.”
Wouldn’t that be a good thing? he wonders. The notion that someone might take so much trouble to console and please a child is new to him. Best, maybe, to be
He would never say aloud (the ghost of Chatty Ballet Man again) that it’s like partnering, but he has thought it, that kind of mute, aloof acceptance of the boy’s support. But it can be messy, awkward, not like partnering at all, her disciplined, carefully placed arms belonging to an entirely different creature from the dangling legs—a greyhound ending in a scarecrow, he has thought. Or: a mermaid stranded on land.
You could make a ballet about paralysis—her husband did once, years ago, long before she got sick, when she was still almost a child. She danced, ran all over the stage, was stricken, and then sat in a wheelchair. It was a small piece, done for charity, performed once. Years before he knew her, or even came to New York, Malcolm happened to read the review of that ballet, sitting in the periodicals room of the newly integrated but stillnerve-racking public library in the Kentucky town where he grew up. He used to go there on Saturdays to read The New York Times —the news but mostly the arts section, the movie and dance reviews—while the two librarians passed by to see how he was doing, the one who ostentatiously smiled to show he was welcome and the one who didn’t. He remembers that review, for some reason; it talked about the beauty of her arms and what she did with her upper body as she sat in the wheelchair. Someone—well, Tim, who is in the company—has told Malcolm her husband can’t bear to remember that he put her in that piece.
Once she is settled, Malcolm hands her the fine silver knife she uses to slit open the envelopes, positions the wastebasket next to her chair, and goes into the kitchen to get the coffee, which he and she both like to drink all through the morning, very strong, with cream. He carries it in to her on a tray, cup and saucer and a blue-and-white Danish coffeepot, delicate and easy to lift but large so that she’ll be well supplied and won’t have to call for more. Unlike the physical things he does for her body, which are not unmentionable but which go unmentioned—they happen in some different world that contains only facts, necessities, mechanics—this gracefully civilized bit of service evokes her soft, pleasant “Thank you,” and one of those radiant smiles.
Then—he is stripping the sheets from the bed, she has gone back to the mail—she says, “Oh, God.” She is looking at an envelope. From where Malcolm is standing, a few feet away, he recognizes her husband’s scrawly black handwriting.
“What?”
“Wait,” she says. She slices open the envelope, scans the letter and laughs, a small, sour, exasperated sigh of a laugh. She holds the white sheet of stationery out to Malcolm.
Dear Sweetheart—
I am in a taxicab going down to the dock, or I am on the dock, or already on the boat as you read this. Crowded, noisy, loud horns, people say good-bye and they love each other. Even though none of this has happened yet, it will, and I will miss you. Be good and careful and eat well, not too much though, and I will come home to you soon .
Love—
Malcolm nods, looks at her, and waits. It seems, to him, like a nice letter; but what matters is how it seems to her.
“What do you think?” she asks, in an overly bright, impatient, baiting voice. She’s smiling. Tell me , she invites. Tell me, and I’ll tell you you’re wrong .
He shakes his head.
She laughs and ducks her head, a graceful little bow, acknowledging his prudence. “Well,” she says, “it’s what you do with a child. You write the stack of letters before you go away, and you give them to a family friend to mail. One a day, or every other day; some prearranged schedule. That way, the child thinks you are thinking of her, and you can go off and be out of reach without worrying that she’s feeling neglected.”
Wouldn’t that be a good thing? he wonders. The notion that someone might take so much trouble to console and please a child is new to him. Best, maybe, to be
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